


lessons in linguistics

by takingoffmyshoes



Series: short story celebration [5]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Communication, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Teamwork makes the dream work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 04:34:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13779807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: Solo has a problem with communication.  Gaby and Illya make him fix it.





	lessons in linguistics

**Author's Note:**

> written for [Tiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Storystuff) as part of my short story celebration on tumblr

Waverly’s waiting for them when they burst into the lobby, and halts their headlong charge with a raised hand. He’s about as tired and rumpled as they are, dressed uncharacteristically casually in a shirt and cardigan rather than a suit, but doesn’t look nearly as harried as he’d sounded on the phone. “He’s all right,” he says heavily, “it’s not as bad as we thought. They’re keeping him overnight as a formality, but he should be free to go by the morning.”

That takes a bit of the weight off of Illya’s shoulders and he lets out a long breath, but Gaby still radiates furious tension. She wears her anger proud and stubborn, and is slow to let it go. “Where is he?” she asks sharply, words fit to cut. 

“I’ll take you up.”

The room Waverly leads them to isn’t meant for one person, but the other cubicles are vacant, curtains drawn back to reveal empty beds as they pass. Solo is the room’s lone occupant, in a bed by the far window overlooking the hospital’s courtyard. He’s paler than usual, and there’s an IV needle taped to the back of his hand, but beyond that he looks like he’s simply asleep. 

“What happened?” Illya asks quietly. Waverly had called several hours ago to let them know that he’d had to take Solo to the hospital after finding him unconscious and unresponsive in his flat, but they hadn’t heard any more since then. Gaby and Illya were on their way to a mission in Morocco, but the strain in Waverly’s voice was enough to turn them around at the Lisbon airport and put them on the first plane back to London. 

Waverly takes off his glasses and starts to polish them on the hem of his sweater. “He failed to show up for his debriefing,” he says, just as softly, “and he’d called to check in the night before so I knew he was in the city, and that his mission had gone well. He wasn’t answering his telephone, so I assumed he’d found something better to do with his time. I went to his flat to wait for him and found him on the floor.” He puts his glasses back on, and glances over at Solo with a look that seems to match the mix of frustration, relief, and concern that Illya himself is struggling with. “He had a high fever, and I couldn’t wake him up, so.... Well, you know the rest.”

“And what exactly is wrong with him?” Gaby asks tightly, arms folded as she peers down at him. 

“Just the flu,” Waverly tells them. “He started to perk up once they got some fluids in him.” Gaby snorts, and Illya has to agree: he wouldn’t even _think_ to describe Solo’s current presentation as ‘perky.’

“Trust me,” Waverly says wryly, “he looked considerably worse when I found him.”

“But he’ll be all right?” Illya presses. 

“Oh, yes, of course. A few weeks of rest should have him right as rain ― provided he actually rests, that is.” He fixes them with a meaningful look. Gaby cracks her knuckles. 

“Don’t worry, sir,” she says darkly. “We’ll keep him in line.”

⸺

It’s another hour or so before Solo wakes up, an hour that Illya spends trying to bring himself down from their frantic flight. _It’s just the flu,_ he reminds himself sternly, time and again, but he keeps hearing Waverly’s voice over the phone. _It’s not looking good,_ he had said. _It’s not looking good._ It must have been bad, to make their normally pragmatic handler assume the worst, and Illya’s still riding the high of fear and adrenaline that those words had provoked.

He’d thought Solo was going to die ― if not immediately, then from whatever mysterious illness could fell a man so swiftly and severely. But it’s just influenza, and Solo’s going to be fine. He breathes into his hands, tries to still their shaking.

Gaby, sitting next to him, appears to be having no such troubles. She is still, like a snake just about to strike, and she has yet to take her eyes off of Solo. It’s enough to make Illya worry about him, just a bit.

“Gaby,” he starts, carefully.

“I’m going to kill him,” she says, like it’s a reasonable response. “And you’re not going to stop me.”

Illya blinks. “You’re not,” he replies. “And I will.”

She rounds on him. “We should be on our way to Morocco,” she hisses, “doing our _job,_ not _here,_ waiting to play nurse for our idiot partner.”

He knows she doesn’t mean it, that she’s likely dealing with the same holdover stress that he is, but still, it’s too harsh. “You wish Waverly hadn’t called?” he asks flatly. “You wish that if it had been bad, we returned next week to find that oh, so sorry, Solo is dead? Or you think you are too good, too important maybe, to take care of your partner when necessary?” 

Gaby deflates. “You know it isn’t that,” she mutters.

“Oh,” says Solo, “but there’s so much Peril _doesn’t_ know.” They both turn to him. Somehow he looks worse now that he’s awake, eyes dull and bloodshot and his usual charm nowhere to be seen. His voice is the same, though, even if it is a bit raspy. Still smooth and flat, nothing in the tone or inflection to suggest that he’s anything but fine.

“How are you feeling?” Illya asks. Gaby just glares.

“Not too bad,” Solo says. “Just the flu, you know. I’ll be out of here tomorrow.”

Illya nods. “That’s what Waverly said. You scared him,” he adds as an afterthought. “He was very worried about you.”

Solo huffs a laugh that has nothing of levity in it. “My dear Peril, people don’t _worry_ about me. They get angry with me, or frustrated, or annoyed, but they don’t _worry._ As Miss Teller so adroitly pointed out, I’m nothing but an inconvenience.”

Gaby sputters, and Solo smiles flatly. “See?” he says, cutting off whatever she was about to say. “Angry and frustrated. Isn’t that right, darling?” He looks back at Illya. “I’m sure I’ll be quite all right on my own, if you two have a plane to catch.”

“No.” It’s Gaby that answers, and Solo raises an eyebrow at her. He looks so tired. “We promised Waverly we’d keep an eye on you,” she says. “And besides, I think it’s time we had a talk.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Gaby sighs. It seems she’s let her anger drop, after all. “You’re something of an expert on socializing,” she says, “so why don’t you tell me a bit about nonverbal communication?”

Solo looks back at Illya, who sees his own confusion mirrored. “I don’t think I follow,” Solo says slowly.

“No? Well, I’ll assume it’s because you’re sick and not because you’re an idiot.”

“How kind,” Solo mutters.

“When two people talk,” Gaby says slowly and gently, like she’s talking to a child, “they don’t just use words. They also use motions and expressions, which is called…” she trails off expectantly.

“Nonverbal communication,” Solo fills in, still sounding unsure. “Paralinguistic, in this case.”

“And there’s something else − I don’t know what it’s called − when people use the volume and the pitch of their voices as well.”

“Extralinguistic markers. Gaby, I don’t think―”

“Hush,” she snaps. He hushes. “The point is, _Napoleon,_ you don’t do that. I know you _can,_ because you do it with marks, but you don’t do it with us, and that’s a problem.” She leans forward, puts her elbows on her knees so her face is mere feet away from his. “We need to know when you’re hurt or sick,” she says seriously, “and if you won’t tell us with your voice, you need to tell us with your words. I know you don’t like showing weakness,” she goes on, “or asking for help, but miscommunications in our work can be deadly, and contrary to what you may think we _do_ worry about you.”

“We wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Illya adds. “Waverly called, told us what happened. We came back at once. He thought you had been poisoned, I think.”

Silence stretches between them. 

“It’s a habit,” Solo says at last. “One I worked hard to develop, and one I can’t risk giving up. Just like keeping a gun clean, or an engine running smoothly. It’s part of my work.”

“I know,” Gaby says. “But that doesn’t mean you have to lie to us. So, how are you really feeling?”

Solo sighs, shifts in the bed. “Sore,” he admits. “Tired. And my head hurts.”

Gaby runs a hand through his hair. “How long have you been sick?”

“I don’t know. I thought it was just jetlag, at first. It wasn’t until after I’d called Waverly that I started to feel like something was wrong, and by then it was late enough that I figured I’d just go to bed and sleep it off. Next thing I know, I’m in the emergency room, and people are yelling and…” He winces and waves a hand to illustrate his distaste. “I’d rather have gone to the debriefing, honestly.”

Illya chuckles. “Good spy would recognize the importance of debriefings,” he says, and gets an eye-roll in response. 

“Be nice to me,” Solo mutters, “I’m sick.”

⸺

The next week and a half isn’t pleasant, but it’s bearable. Gaby and Illya take Solo back to his apartment and stay with him as promised, and do their best to help him through.

He coughs and sweats and shakes and sometimes has trouble keeping food down, but they make him tea and soup and bring him water and blankets. Illya sets an empty garbage bin next to the bed for when he’s feeling sick but can’t get up, and wordlessly puts himself in charge of cleaning it. Gaby goes out and buys a thermometer because Solo doesn’t have one, and shakes him awake three times a day to take his temperature. It never gets high enough that they have to go back to the hospital, but it’s high enough to leave him wrung out and miserable. 

Throughout it all, though, Solo talks to them. He tells them if he’s too cold or too warm, tells them when he’s thirsty or unable to face any sort of sustenance, tells them when he needs help to get to the bathroom to relieve himself or rinse out his mouth. And it’s not easy, and not comfortable, but he does.

And when the second week comes to an end, when he’s better but still a little pale and a little thin and a little exhausted, they decide to stay another week, and he thanks them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
